


Too Hot

by Vicarious



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vicarious/pseuds/Vicarious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a randomized smut prompt called "Blame it on the tequila", which was the game of "Too Hot" ft. Darcy & Loki.</p><p>Warnings for Drunken Darcy/Drunken Sex, moments of self-loathing during sexual activity and therefore initial unenthusiastic/conditional (but eventual full & enthusiastic) consent, and elements of d/s including fear, contempt, and humiliation. Oral, teasing, sex, etc~</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Hot

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't beta'd at all, and I was on 35 hours of no sleep when I wrote this, so if there are typos abound, I apologize.

"You’re not drunk at all, are you—" Darcy scowls, pointing her finger, and to Loki’s surprise, making a wonderfully accurate pirate face. 

He smiles and flashes all white teeth. “No.” His voice is breathy, and Darcy wonders why. But not for long because she’s drunk, way drunk, and that means pouty and obstinate, and all manner of brattiness.

How it came to all this is now a blur. How she told him she hated him, despised him, how she wanted to throw something every time he smiled at her. She knew he hated her too, wanted to hurt Jane, maybe even hurt her. She knew it every time he looked at her and made her blood sing hot. So maybe that’s how Darcy screamed  _I need a drink!_  and Loki obliged, all too curious.

"Fuck youuuuuuu." Darcy groans and sprawls flat against her living room floor, watching Loki touch and prod all the knick knacks in her house. Her face flushes as she looks up at him, a low uneasy grumble coming from her throat.

"You’re positively pitiful, Darcy Lewis." He sighs and looks down to her, brows pulled together in mock disappointment. "And maybe—" He sidesteps the loose, weak kick she throws in his direction, her entire body rolling to her side. His boot lightly taps against her stomach, rolling her over to her back. "Maybe, I have you exactly where I want you." That’s when his boot presses into her stomach until she makes a high pitched whine. The look on her face is worth it. Is she in trouble? Was this a bad idea? There’s a stranger, infinitely more powerful and cruel than her in her house, standing above her, mocking her. And he has her pinned beneath his boot.

But he just steps off her and laughs. But Darcy is too humiliated to move. She just gapes up at him through her glasses, half-falling from her face.

"Liar—."

He pauses to look down at her.

"You’re a liar." She flushes. "You want something from me, but this isn’t it. It’s not me,  _drunk_. Your master scheme has something more important than  _that_.”

He chuckles and Darcy instantly feels stupid. 

"My  _master scheme_ , as you call it does  _not_  include you, but you are right in the assumption that you are, in fact, part of it.”

"— How."

He tilts his head as he looks down at the girl sprawled on the ground at his feet. 

"I will take everything from you, Darcy Lewis. But not before you give in  _to me_. You will betray everything you hold dear, and gladly.”

Darcy pauses.

Then laughs. Oh god, she laughs and laughs and laughs until her sides hurt, until she feels sick, until she feels warm all over.

"Oh my god, are you serious!? I’m not giving anything to you! I’m not betraying anyone. I can’t fucking  _stand_  you. I  _hate_ you!”

"But you will want me."

"Whatever."

A moment of silence passes, and she looks up to him. He’s staring, straight down at her, not smiling, not frowning. But his gaze is … piercing, and it makes her feel almost naked. Small. Unsure suddenly.

She catches a flicker of a smile before it vanishes.

"Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind proving yourself." He slowly crouches to the ground, legs spread in an unholy display of arrogance. 

Darcy raises her brows and pouts her lips with a shrug. She glances to his hands for only the briefest moments; long fingers idly dangling over his knees, beside her. “Fine.”

"If I touch you, I am sure you will be begging to touch me."

"Wait— you mean, like _,_ you’re going to touch me, even though you  _hate me_ , and I’m going to  _somehow_  want to touch you back? And  _beg_  for it?”

"Yes. Let’s put a timer on it, shall we? I give you … twenty minutes. And within that twenty minutes, I will touch you for as long as you grant me permission. If you are still as strong as you believe after that time, I will let you go, entirely."

"—Fine." Darcy immediately snaps. Twenty minutes, touching? Sure. That’s worth Loki slithering off from wherever dark place he came from. 

"You didn’t hear the other end of the proposal."

"What’s the other end of the proposal, Loki?" Darcy chews out, bored. He smirks.

"Then you take into consideration any future proposals, because after tonight, you will know, deep in your heart, that I was right about your true nature. And you will know that I know you better than you know yourself. And you will at least, in part, trust in your subservience to me."

"Fine. Whatever. Let’s do this."

Darcy stares up at Loki, and for the first few minutes, he does absolutely nothing but look down at her. 

With pity. contempt. and unsolicited greediness.

She’s so drunk and her face feels so hot and she feels so silly and pliable and he’s just looking down at her. Staring. A being of immeasurable power, contemplating her existence. She briefly wonders what it would feel like, to have such power. To be so drunk on it that it consumes you from the inside out. That every opportunity of power difference seems intoxicating, if only to prove that you’re strong, that you’re not to be wronged, that you’re—

Then, he touches her.

Right up the underside of her wrist— and she gasps. Or tries not to. So really, she chokes in front of him, staring up at him that the tiniest touch elicited something so— dire from her. She clenches her eyes shut as his sole index finger trailed up her bare arm, feeling it tickle— and though she’s concentrating hard on not squirming, she can hear that breathy chuckle.

And his fingers now, all lightly dragging along her collarbone reach the nape of her neck, and her jaw slowly becomes unclenched, red, full lips spreading just a fraction.

Darcy breathes out so slowly her voice shakes as he wraps his fingers around her neck— only for the most gentle and briefest of moments. Like he’s holding her, suspending her in this moment, just to prove it exists. That she’s playing along with his silly game. 

But his hand disappears, and her gaze flutters open just in enough time to catch that idly, lazy finger run against her lower lip. It tickles, and his finger feels so  _gentle_  that it’s almost frightening. His hand briefly cups her jaw, thumb pressing into her lip. He doesn’t meet her gaze, his eyes are locked with her lips, held in his hand. It feels like he’s  _appraising_ her. Judging her. 

For what?

Was it good enough?

Wait— why is she even thinking that?

She frowns and his fingers immediately pull back from her face, but he says nothing so it’s hard to pout for long, not when his free hand brushes the hair behind her ear. She tries not to shiver.

And with one hand petting her hair so gently, his fingers trail down her chest— and she inhales sharply as they travel a perfect line over her blouse, completely avoiding the more sensitive areas of her breasts.

And she sighs.

But then his fingers travel up again.

Up and down, up and down.

So slowly.

Directly down the middle.

She feels lightheaded from holding her breath, and at one point, her eyes drift shut as his hand once petting her head gently massages her neck. God— that, actually feels really good.

The touch disappears over her breasts, but then— she gasps loudly as her nipple is oh-so-gently brushed over. And to her horror, both of her nipples are pressing through her bra and against her blouse and she wants to cover herself up and kick this asshole in the face, but then he wins. And he can’t win.

It’s just a natural reaction. She knows that. It’s what he’s trying to do.  _I’m only human_ she tells herself and turns her face away, into his palm. He can feel how hot her cheeks are.

That’s when he pinches her nipple— hard. And her body jerks suddenly, but he has his hand cupping her face, and he turns her face up to look up at him— and his gaze is seething, full of hatred and contempt for mocking him all this time, and now as he pulls and pinches at her nipple, her face scrutinizes in horror before she  _moans._

All of this horrible time is silent, and she frantically glances to the digital clock to realize only nine minutes have past. 

He forces his thumb between her lips and she creates a near-strangled cry before he lowers his knees to the ground, against her arm and her leg.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh." He hushes her, silently reminder of their bargain. His hand is pressed over her clothed press and his thumb presses against her retreating tongue in her mouth, and he holds her like that. For two minutes. Two minutes in which she doesn’t say  _stop_. She doesn’t say  _get off._  She doesn’t say  _no._

She whimpers as she looks up at him.

And he wickedly smiles. 

His thumb leaves her mouth, trailing her own spit over her lip and over her chin. Shame and arousal wash over her as he presses both hands to her breasts, large , but fitting in his palms.

He lightly eases his knees up against her arm and leg as both hands travel down, tracing the curve of her hips. This bastard. God, she’s already so turned on, and he’s only felt her up, over her clothes, waist up for maybe four minutes at most. Seven minutes left.

Oh god.

She swallows thickly.

His hands trail up and down her thighs for what feels like a very long time, thumbs pressing into the dip of her hips, letting her body rise as she squirms, before pressing her down into the floor with force. Darcy whines pitifully.

She knows what’s coming next, and that’s all in his intention. For her to imagine those slender fingers to dip into her underwear and feel how wet she is, for that awful smirk to grow against his face, for him to meet her gaze and part his lips in a mock  _Oh…?_

But he doesn’t, not yet.

Goddamn it.

Goddamn it, Loki.

Instead, he grips her through her skirt and underwear, all in one hand, just holding her between her legs, squeezing and rubbing and feeling all it all damp and hot and greedy. It’s his good work, he knows.

Her legs slowly part as her feet slide flat against the floor and her body arches as he holds one thigh in her hand, the other petting her over her clothes.

All this time he’s said absolutely nothing, only touched her, and the only sound between the two is the sound of Darcy, breaking.

Suddenly, her underwear is simply  _gone_ , and at first she thinks herself so unbelievable drunk that she’s making this entire thing up, but then she sees her panties, stained with her own desire, only a few feet from her face. 

Oh, right, magic.

Except now she can  _smell_  just how turned on she is. 

She breathes in a deep, shaky breath as his fingers glide over her clit, and she’s so wet it’s all smooth and lovely the way his fingers move with grace and ease.

She looks up at him, but he refuses to meet her gaze. He’s too fixated with how wet and wanton she’s become, and to prove it, he brushes the tips of his fingers against her— something hot clenches suddenly deep inside her— and holds up his glistening finger tips. He sighs, captivated, almost satisfied.

Darcy’s eyes nearly roll back as her head thumps against the floor, the world above her a dizzy daze of lust and confusion.

Six minutes left. She can do this. Six minutes and she’ll have resisted the best the god could throw at her. 

But then, two slender fingers slip inside her with hardly any strength at all, and tug forward.

Her entire body jolts and flushes, nearly thrashing against the floor as with no warning at all, pumps his fingers in and out of her. And his other hand begins to rub circles against her clit, and her feet kick against the floor— God, it feels so good she can barely breathe and it’s only been a few moments at most and her body is on fire, writhing beneath him. Her hands previously flat against the floor in her fists are now groping at her own skirt, clenching it up between her fingers. 

Her breaths are heavy and become shorter and shorter, and louder, too. They’re whiny and whimpering at first, but as her hips rock against him, her moans are more urgent, and deeper. She’s never heard herself sound like this. She sounds wild, and so not like herself. 

Darcy bites her lip as she holds back a loud cry as he fucks her with his hands, pressure building and clenching deep inside her. God— Loki is going to make her come.

Loki is going to make her come, isn’t he?

No.

She looks up in horror as both hands slow, just as her body ramps up to release everything. All her horror and tension and anger and freedom.

He pulls his fingers out — No. But his fingertips move slow, gentle circles against her clit. Her body feels aching and pulsing with desire, and to her relief, his fingers slip back inside her. However, they do not press or pull or move in any sort of way. He’s keeping her at the precipice of orgasm, and she knows why.

Oh god.

She glances at the clock, and there’s three minutes to spare. She’s so close!

His fingers glisten with her arousal, and she can smell it so strongly now, sticky and sweet, just inches above her as he crouches over her.

And he slowly presses those glistening fingers into his mouth. He closes his eyes and suck.

She sighs so loudly it makes her ache again.

His fingers slowly move in and out of her mouth and she lets out another cry, writhing against him.

His fingers pop from his mouth with a satisfied smile before they slowly lower themselves to her mouth.

She parts her lips, all willingly and obediently, but they never touch. She’s there with her mouth open and wide, and his fingers pull back.

Instead, they wave over his thighs, and she notices his green and black leather battle robe slowly… fading? It almost glistens as it fades and recedes from his body. Up, up, up, his thighs until—

Oh my god.

His clothes all but disappear from his body, providing the view of an incredibly beautiful and sculpted naked man. Naked… Loki.

Naked Loki with his hardened cock bouncing just above her face.

Darcy gasps and with his fingers, still glistening with his spit and her arousal, he grips herself.

His fingers pull at her, inside her, and she writhes. It’s almost enough to miss the look on his face; the way he bites down on his lip and his eyes roll back as he sighs. 

Darcy moans loudly and every inch of her is in pain, in want, in absolute greed of this horrible god.

Even more so when he begins to stroke himself just above her face, his fingers clenched around himself, his cock inches above her lips.

Her mouth waters and she hates herself for it. She looks up at him and moans again, louder. It’s deep and wanting and finally, finally, his gaze meets her. His gaze is penetrating and deep, unforgiving and inviting. It tells her he hates her, but she hates herself more as she glances to the clock for the last and final time.

One minute remaining as she whispers  _Fuck._

Then—

"Please."

It’s so timid and small, but it breaks down inside her and it’s washed out by Loki’s  _moan._ He tilts his head back as he strokes his cock before her and her hand and thighs and body shakes and hurts with want. He drowns her out in his own tortorous pleasure.

“ _Please._ ”

He says nothing, still. Only pumping his fingers into her harder now and she cries out as his he pleasures himself so close to her watering mouth.

"Please, Loki, god— please—  _Fuck me_. Fuck me, please. God. Please. Let me touch you.  **Please.** ”

And then the clock beeps and his eyes open and he looks down to her as everything, everything comes to a complete and utter stop.

And she knows what she has done.

And she knows he is right.

That her pleasure and her body and her will is weak, and he is masterful and evil and knowing.

And she wants that.

Oh god, she fucking wants that.

Her hand slowly reaches up to touch  his cock, and his body is so cold that she gasps. His fingers slowly pull out of her as she guides his cock into her mouth, down into her throat, and she moans against him as her body rises to meet the promise of his.

Loki’s moan is almost beautiful, but the words that follow really are.

"Oh, good girl. Good girl, Darcy Lewis."

Her eyes roll back as he thrusts himself into her mouth, gathering and bunching her hair in his hands to pull her closer against him. “You’re not worthless at all, are you?” He taunts before pushing a shallow thrust into her throat. She squirms as he holds her there, his cock in her throat as the clock keeps beeping, reminding them of their bet. 

And he laughs, so deeply as the tears cloud her vision, and slowly, humiliation melts away utterly and completely as pure desire floods her.

He slowly pulls out, not yet orgasming. The two of them are sore and wanting and he pulls back completely to leave Darcy on the floor, stunned.

She can touch him now.

The realization seems like the greatest revelation that humanity has ever considered.

And she pulls herself to sit up, all dizzy and delirious, but her hands are on him, on his chest, on his shoulder, over his arms. Her mouth sweeps kisses along the shallow nape of his neck, and her hips rock against his cock as she kneels against him, fingers clawing into his cold, pale skin.

"Fuck— fuck… oh god, fuck." She whispers against his ear as his hands travel her body, her clothes disappearing in his wake. He moves small nips and bites along her shoulder, her neck, leaving marks and bruises and marks of conquer.

"Say it. Say my name." He hisses against her ear. After all this, even in his victory, he hates her, and she wants him all the more for it.

"Loki." She whimpers.

"Again,  _Darcy Lewis_.”

"Oh— god— Loki!" She swallows thickly. "Touch me, touch me, don’t stop. Please, please— please." She begs and begs before his moans against her lips, sliding his tongue into her mouth. She wants to fucking drown in that kiss, in him, in this absolute madness that captures her. 

He kisses her hard and bruising as he lowers her to the ground, hovering over her, and she half expects some witty retort or piercing glare, but there’s nothing but his cock that impales inside her, and she shouts out, grasping and clawing at his back.

And despite it all, and his victory, she knows how much he wants to fuck her, how much touching her drove him every bit wild that he did, that in all this time he secretly begged and yearned to be touched by her terribly small and mortal hands. How he wanted to fuck her and to be fucked back, to be buried so deep inside her that she screams his name.

And she does.

She welcomes the madness she, too rules over him, that she invites him in with her own cocktail of intoxication, and she welcomes himself within her, relinquishing that shattering orgasm to him, and welcomes that burning release he sows inside deep inside, her leaving her gasping for breath and in tears as he keeps going and she cries his name again and again while that clock keeps beeping.

Let it.

Let all this madness, and Loki, and Darcy too, come.


End file.
